


Denial

by roamingbadger



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Because I'm fake dating trash and I couldn't help myself, Christmas, F/M, Fake Dating, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 12:23:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5585236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roamingbadger/pseuds/roamingbadger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jemma knew that denial could be a powerful emotion. After all, it had persisted through months of aborted conversations, through scores of made-up dates, through Bobbi’s interrogation, even through a bloody kiss. But it took Fitz crawling into bed beside Jemma and warming her to the tips of her toes before she would admit the one thing she’d been denying for so long. A fake dating holiday AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Denial

**Author's Note:**

> I received the prompt "scenes from everyday life" from tumblr user mrsdecaestecker in the Fitzsimmons Secret Santa gift exchange. Suffice it to say I took full advantage of the broad spectrum this prompt provided . . . because I'm fake dating trash. :D Mrsdecaestecker, I really hope you like your gift!!!!! Happy holidays from "Leo," Jemma, and me . . .

* * *

           Dr. Jemma Simmons was not normally late for work. In fact, in the two years since she’d started at Masterly Labs in London, she had never once been late for her scheduled shift. If anything, she was known for being one of two scientists who simply never left the lab except for food and sleep. But her morning so far had not gone as planned.

            “Excuse me. Sorry,” she said, pushing her way onto a crowded train. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the train window and flinched. Hair coming out of its ponytail, blouse rumpled, shoulder bags slipping from her arms. Her colleagues would think someone had died.

            Really, they weren’t far from the truth.

            Okay, so she was exaggerating a bit. But the panicked feeling in her stomach hadn’t gone away since she’d hung up the phone with her mother an hour earlier. This whole dilemma had begun long before that, at least six months ago. Her mother had been pestering her for weeks about having a boyfriend, especially since Jemma lived all alone in London, had never brought home a bloke—the list went on and on. It didn’t help that her stepsister Bobbi had already been married and divorced in the time since Jemma had moved away from Sheffield. Therefore, it seemed only logical at the time to silence her mother by, well, making a boyfriend up.

            Cue six months and one terrifying phone call later. Bobbi and her ex, Hunter, had gotten back together. And then her mother said the most horrible words.

            “We can’t _wait_ to meet your boyfriend, darling. We’ll f _inally_ fill all six table settings, isn’t it wonderful? And to see our girls, happy and together—”

            Jemma had pretty much tuned out the rest of that, her brain concentrating instead on the idea of those six table settings. And then she realized her mistake. She’d planned all along to schedule her fake break-up for December 1st, early enough that she wouldn’t have to pretend to be sad on Christmas, but late enough that she could hold off her mother’s pestering as long as possible. Then, of course, she’d had a breakthrough in her research in late November, and her paper had been picked up for _Science_ , and—well—all those long hours at the lab had quite distracted her.

            “Oh, mum, I’m sorry, but he can’t spend Christmas with us,” Jemma had said that morning once the ringing in her ears had died down. “He has his own family stuff.”

            A long silence on the other line, and then: “His own family stuff.” There was that dangerously knowing tone that Jemma normally did everything to avoid. “Darling, I told you about this ages ago. You said he was free.”

            “Did I?” Another phone call she’d tuned out. Jemma was great at preparation, but when her mother called unexpectedly, lying off-the-cuff didn’t usually go as planned. “My mistake, then.”

            “Your _mistake_? Jemma, I’ve already bought all the food, and made up the spare room—we were _so_ excited—Frank even took time off _work_ for—what’s his name again? Leo?”

            Jemma flinched. Unlike her, Margaret Simmons remembered everything. And it was only after Jemma had said the first name that popped into her head that she realized “Leo” was also the name of her silent co-worker. Fortunately, he never needed to know that. “Yes. Look, Mum, I’m really sorry, but I have to—”

            “Oh no you don’t,” Margaret interrupted. “Jemma Simmons, you listen to me. Can’t you bring that boy home for just one night? Your sister will be so disappointed.”

            “I’m sure she’ll live.” Out of everyone in the strange family of theirs, Bobbi was by far the most normal. Although she did have an annoying way of being right most of the time, especially when it came to reading people.

            “Well, why don’t you ring him right now and ask if he can do just one night? Maybe tomorrow? Then he can get to his family by Christmas Eve.”

            “Mum, I—”

            “That sounds like a great plan. Just ring him, Jemma, and ask. You know we’re counting on meeting him.” And then her mum hung up.

            Now, one hour and a frantic commute later, Jemma had still not come up with a way out of this one. She could stage their breakup now, but that would almost be worse, since her mother would spend the entire Christmas holiday going on about how Jemma would die alone. Jemma could make up a reason to stay in London, but Bobbi would never forgive her, _especially_ since Hunter would be back in the picture. Bobbi needed all the support she could get.

            By the time Jemma was leaving the train and power-walking to the lab entrance, she had about fifty new solutions, each as implausible as the last. She could pretend they’d gotten in an accident and “Leo” had to stay behind in hospital. She could say he’d been gravely ill and she hadn’t wanted to alarm anyone by telling them. She could say he’d decided he was gay. (At least that way her mother would have trouble making it Jemma’s fault.)

            Part of her almost wanted to laugh at this latest idea—the strange, hysterical laughter that bubbles up when it’s least desirable. Jemma managed to tamp this down as she worked her way through the halls to her lab on the second floor.

            She shared lab space with three other scientists: one chemist, one zoologist, and one silent, intimidating engineer named Leopold Fitz. Why _his_ name of all names had sprung to mind for her fake boyfriend, Jemma _still_ hadn’t figured out. Her psychological studies might suggest a weird Freudian-type thing, but that couldn’t be possible, because Jemma knew for a fact that Fitz hated her. Besides, he always went by his last name anyway—at least, he had the first time they’d been introduced, because he had barely spoken to her since then. “Leo” just rolled coincidentally off the tongue. End of observation.

            It being Christmas Week, the labs were dead. The chemist and the zoologist had both flown back to their respective countries to visit family. Unsurprisingly, however, Jemma noticed Fitz bent over his worktable across from hers. Like her, he was known for always being here. Which made it even more frustrating that he hated her so much. It could be quite daunting to spend literal years of your life across from that silent judgment every day.

            As the lab door fell shut behind her, Fitz glanced up, and his eyes lingered longer than usual as Jemma made her way across the room. She knew she looked a sight, but something about the idea of him noticing made her flush with heat. Great, so now he would think she was irritating _and_ a complete mess.

            Just throw it on the pile of other rubbish she had to deal with that morning.

            Fortunately for her, science was her refuge. She had one last round of edits to finish up on her paper for _Science_ , so once she’d unpacked and thrown on her lab coat, she alternated those with some hands-on microscope work. In no time at all, she’d forgotten her mother, her fake boyfriend, her rumpled blouse, and Leopold Fitz. She’d forgotten everything but science.

            The interruption, therefore, was even more jarring when it eventually came. Jemma jumped a foot from her seat when, for the first time _ever_ in the history of their labwork, Fitz’s mobile went off.

            She stared in surprise as he fumbled for his pocket and answered with a hushed, “Hello?” It only took her a second to catch herself and jerk her gaze away. Jemma narrowed her eyes at the paper in front of her instead, focusing on her editor’s marginalia, but the letters swam before her eyes as Fitz continued.

            “Right, yeah, ‘s no problem. No, it’s fine. I can come up for the weekend instead.” Silence. “I figured as much.” More silence, then, more quietly: “Look, mum, I promise it’s fine. I’ve got loads to do here anyway.” A pause. An exhalation of breath. “Yes, I’m sure. There’s a lab party on Thursday anyway that I wouldn’t want to miss.”

            Jemma knew perfectly well that there was no such thing. In fact, she found it amusing to imagine what Fitz at a “lab party” might look like. She could just picture him in his usual jumper and grumpy expression. Though she didn’t look up from her paper, she gave up any attempt of trying to make edits, and concentrated all her willpower instead on Fitz’s conversation. She recognized the sound of a person lying to their parent when she heard it.

            “Right, sounds good. Don’t work too hard. I’ll see you on Saturday.” Silence. “I told you it’s fine. Yeah. Bye, Mum.” And then he hung up.

            Jemma thought she saw his face turn towards her from across the room, but she pretended to be absorbed in her edits. Her brain _was_ engaged, just not in the latest samples of her dendrotoxin solution. It was too busy forming a crazy plan, then calculating the probability that Fitz would accept it.

* * *

            A few hours passed as Jemma finalized the details of her plan in her mind. She also needed that time to build up her courage. Concocting crazy plans involving a colleague who despised her was not a part of her daily routine.

            Finally, around lunchtime, Jemma seized her chance. Shucking off her lab coat in favor of her black peacoat, she stood from her desk and cleared her throat. “Can I interest you in a sandwich?” she said across the lab.

            Fitz glanced up, surprise clear in his expression. He actually checked over his shoulder to make sure she was speaking to him. Then he turned back and said, “Um, well, I need to finish this combustion ion—”

            “Cup of tea, then?” Jemma persisted. It was not a good sign that he wouldn’t even let her get to the “crazy idea” part. He looked down at his worktable, hesitated, then set down the tools he’d been holding.

            “I think I can spare ten minutes,” he said.

            “Right.” She could work with that. In fact, she thought he’d say five. Fitz collected his jacket, and in a minute, they were walking in awkward silence to the café just down the road.

            Fitz held the door open for her as they reached the café, and she thanked him—the first words she’d spoken since she left the lab. She’d begun to regret her decision as soon as they started walking together. How could she not have remembered how much he _clearly_ disliked her? If the whole acting thing wasn’t crazy enough, her parents would probably notice that her boyfriend couldn’t stand to look her in the eye. Oh, well, she told herself as they got in the café queue. She could just get tea and be done. He never needed to know the difference.

            “I heard about your paper in _Science_ ,” he said. “Donnie told me.” Donnie was the chemist who shared their lab space. Fitz was no closer with him than with her, so Jemma was surprised to hear they’d spoken at all, much less about her paper. But her surprise didn’t stop her from a smiling “Thanks” in response to Fitz.

            They shuffled a step forward in the queue. Fitz cleared his throat and said to her shoelaces, “He mentioned you were working on some kind paralytic injection substance. Got a delivery method?”

            That caught her attention. Even though they shared lab space, and their employer encouraged collaboration, Jemma was slightly worried to hear that her work was so transparent. The paper was supposed to be confidential until its publication—mostly to protect the rights of the journal—and if word got out this easily, _Science_ was sure to find out. Out loud, she said, “I didn’t realize Donnie knew my work so well. Perhaps I should be listing him as a co-author.”

            To her surprise, Fitz’s neck started to turn red over the collar of his shirt. He was silent as they shuffled forward again, one step closer to the till. Jemma studied the menu on the wall in silence, worrying about Donnie, but then Fitz said in a mumble, “Actually, Donnie didn’t tell me anything. I just saw you working from across the lab and—and—inferred.”

            Jemma stopped and stared for so long that the person behind them said, “Are you in the queue?” They both stepped forward then, but Jemma managed to ask, “How did you—you could tell that from across the room?”

            Fitz was now studying the floor as intently as she’d been reading the menu. He nodded. “I mean, I saw you working with your samples from last year as you were composing the rough draft.”

            Jemma focused on the head of the person in front of them, her mind spinning. Her samples from last year? Did that mean he’d been watching her work _this entire time?_ “But—but how did you know what they were?”

            He shrugged as they moved forward again, now two customers away from the till. “You mentioned a paralytic early in the experimental process,” he said. “Said you had high hopes for its market potential.”

            Jemma was not the type to boast about her work in the lab. In fact, she did it so rarely that she remembered the exact conversation Fitz was referring to. It had been well over a year ago—the summer before last, not too long into her tenure at Masterly Labs, before she’d given up on conversations with Fitz entirely. She’d only mentioned it because she could see from his work that he was her most intelligent and resourceful lab companion. She’d never developed something for the market on her own before, and she’d been hoping he might want to collaborate. Blinking at him in the café, Jemma blurted out, “But . . . but you didn’t even respond that day.”

            Fitz stepped forward in the queue without responding. There was now only one customer to go before their turn.

            “I couldn’t even tell if you’d heard me,” Jemma said to Fitz’s shoulder. She was speaking half in stunned disbelief, half out of a desire to see his reaction. That conversation had been one of the last they’d ever had. Getting the cold shoulder in response to a tentative offer of collaboration had been enough to deter Jemma from speaking again.

            Fitz shrugged and half-glanced back at her, still not meeting her eyes. “I wanted to build a prototype that would really—” he stopped abruptly, biting back whatever he’d been about to say. “I just didn’t think it would take me a year and a half,” he added after a moment.

            Jemma blinked at him, but he was already turning back to the till. “You mean—you’ve built one?”

            “Hiya, what can I get you two today?” The cashier behind the till prevented further conversation. Jemma ordered a takeaway tea and panino—her usual—and then stood in numb disbelief until Fitz took out his wallet to pay.

            “No, no, I insist,” she said, pulling a twenty pound note from her pocket. “I invited _you_ , after all.” Fitz said nothing as she paid and took her change, and the awkward silence from earlier descended around them as they waited for their orders to be ready.

            “I can’t believe you’ve been working on that this entire time,” Jemma said at last. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

            Fitz stepped away from her without replying. “I think that’s mine,” he said, waving half-heartedly at the tea being served up by a barista.

            Jemma realized he was trying to back out of the conversation and chose not to speak again until she had collected her lunch and they were halfway back to the labs. “How do you know your prototype will even work with my substance? You don’t know its chemical properties. You don’t even know the dosage!”

            “I know your average sample size during testing was 50 milliliters,” he said from beside her on the pavement. “As to chemical properties, well, I’ve designed a hollow bullet that can be built from multiple substances depending on chemical reactions with your serum.”

            “Solution,” Jemma corrected, but it was more out of instinct than anything. She was too distracted by Fitz’s information to concentrate on anything else. He was silent as she worked through this on their way upstairs, only breaking his stride to scan them back through various locked doors with his badge. Once they were back in the lab, Jemma crossed to her table, dropped her sandwich and tea, and turned back to face him, arms crossed.

            If he could spring a surprise on her, she could do the same for him.

            “Fitz,” she began tentatively, but he cut her off.

            “Look, forget I said anything,” he said, sitting down at his workstation without meeting her eyes. “I took too long on the prototype, and I have no idea if it will even work.”

            “If you made it, I’m sure it will,” she said, and that much, at least, was true. He may dislike her as a person, but he was clearly interested in her science, and she was more than happy to return the compliment. “You’re the smartest person in this lab. In this _building_.”

            That got his attention. His eyes were round with surprise when he glanced up from his tools. His lips had even parted, just a smidge, as if he were going to speak, but nothing came out.

            Shocker.

            Jemma seized the moment. So he didn’t hate her quite as much as she thought. At least, not enough to avoid collaboration on her most recent project. That was good enough for her. “Listen,” she said, and it was her turn to focus on his desktop instead of his face, “I have a—strange idea.” She took a breath. “I sort of—told my mum that I was bringing a boyfriend to Christmas dinner. Only I haven’t got a boyfriend. And I . . . may have overheard you saying you’d be here for Christmas. So, I was thinking—well—” She glanced up, saw the unreadable expression on his face, lost her courage, and looked away again. “I was thinking maybe you could come up just for a night and pretend to be my boyfriend,” she said in a rush. “I’ll pay you. I’ll put your prototype in my paper and make you a co-author.” That was a stroke of last-minute thinking, she told herself, and might even do the trick. She bit her lip, waiting.

            And waiting.

            Finally, the silence was unendurable, and she squared her shoulders and met his eyes. They were very blue, striking even across the lab, all the more so because they were staring right back at her for a change. They were narrowed ever-so-slightly, considering, and to her surprise, he did not look entirely pleased. Well, the colleague he disliked had just asked him to spend his Christmas as her fake boyfriend, she thought to herself. She could forgive him for not being as enthusiastic as she had, perhaps, hoped.

            She was good at hypotheses when it came to science. Not so good, it would seem, when they involved people.

            But Fitz surprised her again by taking a deep breath, letting it out, dropping his gaze, and saying, “All right. I’ll do it.”

            Jemma blinked at him. “But I didn’t tell you how much I’d pay.”

            He shrugged.

            “I can give you 500 quid,” she said quickly, afraid he would change his mind. All her savings so far—London was an expensive city—but this would be worth the loss. “And I’ll hold off on submitting my final draft, until we’ve tested the prototype.”

            He was silent. Jemma realized this was a good thing, as it meant he wasn’t opening his mouth to beg off the agreement. Feeling as if her offers were helping the bargain, she continued, “It’s only for the one night. I can fill you in on the details tomorrow on the train. You won’t have to do anything, you know, besides talk.” _And maybe sleep in the same room as me_ , Jemma realized, but she didn’t want to scare him away, so she kept that detail to herself. She could always sleep on the floor. She waited.

            He remained silent, fidgeting with one or two items on his desk. When she didn’t continue, he looked up at last and seemed startled to catch her staring.

            “Do we have a deal?” she asked him, eyebrows raised.

            He stared, then nodded. “Deal.”

            Jemma collapsed into her seat, relieved. “I don’t believe it,” she said, mostly to herself. Then, “I have to ring my mum.”

* * *

            Jemma couldn’t believe it.

            As she searched up and down the platform for Fitz, her knuckles white on her suitcase handle, she began to hope he wouldn’t show up. Not for the first time, she was wondering what she’d been thinking the day before. In the shock of discovering that Fitz actually _cared_ about her work, she’d forgotten that he’d, oh, ignored her for two years running. Not to mention that Bobbi would see through her deception right away. And—oh yeah—she’d have to tell Fitz at some point that her fake boyfriend was called “Leo.”

            Jemma’s cheeks burned with shame at this realization. Fortunately for her, their train to Sheffield was due out in five minutes, and he was nowhere to be found. Maybe he’d _also_ realized his mistake—

            —No such luck. She spotted him a second later, struggling to jam his suitcase through a turnstile. For someone with genius-level intelligence, she realized he could be rather . . . clumsy . . . sometimes. It would have been endearing, if she weren’t hearing her mother’s criticisms in her head.

            And they hadn’t even left London yet.

            “Hello, Fitz,” she said with a weak wave as he walked up. “I thought you weren’t going to make it.”  
            “Disruption on the Piccadilly line,” he said as he drew even with her. She nodded understanding and tried to look enthusiastic— _not_ worried or regretful—as they boarded their train.

            Jemma led them to an empty compartment and stashed her suitcase on the luggage rack above them. Fitz followed suit, taking the seat across from her and staring deliberately out the window.

            “So,” she said, waiting for him to look her way. He didn’t. “I suppose I should tell you about who you are,” she said after a silence.

            “Good plan. Am I English?” He changed his usual Scottish accent to a posh Southern one. “Oxbridge, or something?”

            “No.” Jemma tried not to look offended. Is that who he thought she would like? In her experience, they all tended to be the definition of boring, but she decided not to tell him that. “Actually, you’re Scottish. So you can just be . . . you.”

            “Oh.” He seemed—surprised? Disappointed? He was as difficult to read when he was speaking to her as when he wasn’t, she thought to herself. “Anything else?”

            “Well . . .” Here it was. The moment she’d been dreading. She put it off a bit longer, saying, “I actually told them we met at a work thing, so you can stick to being my lab partner. And they don’t know anything about his family, so . . . feel free to say whatever you want about that.”

            He raised his eyebrows.

            “We’ve been dating six months,” she continued, wanting to shy away from how, well, _true_ all this sounded. She hadn’t really inspected the similarities between Leo and Fitz until now, and she was beginning to wish she had, if only to prepare herself for this embarrassing conversation. “We don’t live together. You’re my—my longest relationship, so be prepared for heavy hints from my mum. Also, my stepdad and his daughter will be there. Frank and Bobbi.”

            “Frank and Bobbi. Right. And which is the daughter?”

            “Bobbi. Her real name’s Barbara, but—don’t ever call her that.” Jemma smiled at the thought. “And Bobbi’s ex-husband Hunter will be there, too.”

            “Ex-husband?”

            “They got divorced a couple of years ago, and now they’re back together,” Jemma said. “It’s . . . complicated.”

            “Yeah.” Fitz counted on his fingers. “Frank, Bobbi, Hunter, and—what’s your mum’s name?”

            “Margaret.”

            “And Margaret.” Fitz was silent for a moment, and then he asked the dreaded question, the one that twisted Jemma’s throat into a sailor’s knot: “And what’s _my_ name?”

            Jemma bit her lip. She glanced out the train window. They were just starting to leave the station, colors blurring as they picked up speed. “Leo,” she mumbled.

            “Sorry?”

            “Your name’s Leo.”

            She watched his reflection in the train window as it went from shocked, to confused, to—what? Thoughtful? Hard to say. She felt her own face heating up and deliberately ignored it.

            “At least I won’t forget that one,” he said after a while. Jemma wished she had some dendrotoxin to use on herself at that moment.

            Instead she said, her voice as calm and logical as she could make it in that instance, “Well, the most believable lies are the ones closest to the truth.”

            And what that said about her own deceptions, she preferred to ignore.

* * *

            By the end of their train ride, Fitz could list all Jemma’s family members and their likes and dislikes as if he’d memorized them from a textbook. If he’d noticed that Leo bore a striking resemblance to himself, he hadn’t commented, for which Jemma would have upped his fee to 600 quid if she had it—which she didn’t.

            They were two of only a handful of people to disembark in Sheffield. Fitz insisted on carrying her suitcase off the train, which Jemma allowed for the sake of first impressions. Sure enough, Margaret Simmons was waiting on the platform, and when she saw them both, she let out a cry and engulfed them in a wide-armed hug.

            “Oh, Leo, it’s lovely to meet you,” she said into Fitz’s shoulder. Jemma felt him being crushed into her by the strength of her mother’s arms and hoped he wouldn’t back out of the whole charade in that instant. But when her mother released them, he was still there, a tentative smile curving his lips. “Jemma even tried not to bring you,” Margaret continued, dropping Jemma to grip Fitz’s shoulders. “I was starting to think you weren’t real!”

            Fitz managed a small laugh, which was drowned out by Jemma’s forced one. Margaret turned toward her, frowning. “Jemma, dear, you look like you haven’t slept in weeks. Are you working overtime again?” She turned back to Fitz and linked her elbow through his, despite the bulky suitcases he held in both hands. “You _really_ must get her out of the lab,” she said, tugging him off the platform toward the car park. “We always thought she would be married to her work—”

            Oh, God, Jemma thought. Not thirty seconds in and her mother had already managed to throw around the M word. She’d briefed Fitz on her mother’s obsession, but he’d remained silent the whole time, so it was impossible to know how long he would withstand the heavy hints. Jemma hurried along behind them, ready to intervene and take back the brunt of her mother’s attention if it got too bad. But Fitz was listening closely, allowing himself to be dragged all the way to the car and into the front seat.

            Once they were on the road, Jemma’s mother turned to Fitz. “Now, you’ll tell me the story of how you met, won’t you, Leo? Jemma said it was a work party, but she’s always been so secretive—”

            “Mum,” Jemma began in desperation, worry constricting her breath. This was one story she hadn’t prepared, despite all her attention to detail. She’d come up with a hundred dates for their six-month tenure, and of course her mother picked the one thing that Jemma had forgotten to plan.

            “Jemma,” said Margaret over her shoulder. “If I’m finally meeting a boyfriend of yours in the flesh, I’m going to speak with him as I very well please. No exceptions.”

            “But, Mum—”

            “It’s all right,” Fitz said, surprising her. “I can tell the story.”

            Margaret beamed across the car at him. “Lovely. Thank you, Leo. I’m just dying to know.”

            Jemma stared at him, open-mouthed. His eyes met hers ever-so-briefly in the rearview mirror, and she mouthed, _What are you doing?_ But his gaze flitted away again. “We actually met on Jemma’s first day at the labs. It was my first day, too, and I was afraid to speak to anyone.” Jemma’s breathing turned shallow as she listened. “She was assigned the workspace across from me, and I—I remember the way she smiled.”

            Margaret made an admiring sound. “Love at first sight?” she cooed from behind the steering wheel. “Ah, sweetie, why didn’t you tell me that?”

            But Jemma barely heard her. Her heart was pounding in her ears. She and Fitz _had_ met on their respective first days. She _had_ smiled at him when they were given their desk assignments. And he’d said nothing in response as he took his seat across the room.

            “—only dating for six months,” Margaret was saying as Jemma struggled to listen. “So what took you so long?”

            Fitz’s fingers were in his lap, his leg bouncing up and down in a quick rhythm. It was the only indication that he was even remotely nervous. “Well, I was too shy to do anything,” he replied, his voice more even and calm than Jemma had ever heard it. “It wasn’t until our colleague’s retirement sendoff that I built up the nerve.”

            “A-ha.” In the periphery of her vision, Jemma saw her mother giving Fitz a cheeky grin. “That must be what Jemma mentioned.”

            It wasn’t. Jemma had just made up a work party because work was the only place she ever went. But at Fitz’s words, she remembered that one of the lab technicians on the ground floor had been retiring around that time. It was her only social event with her colleagues, and she’d indulged in a few glasses of wine throughout the evening. She remembered the liquid courage urging her to join a trio of men, including Fitz, and then stay there as the other two wandered off, leaving her and Fitz to themselves. They’d had a fascinating conversation about his doctoral work—a conversation which only made her all the more disappointed when he wouldn’t meet her eye in the lab the next day.

            “—thought she liked another colleague of ours,” Fitz was saying, “but then she stayed to talk to me. It was a great conversation. I finally . . . finally got the courage to ask her out that night.”

            Margaret had gone soft-eyed and smiling. Whatever inspiration Fitz was pulling from, it was doing the trick. Jemma had never seen her mother make that face in any circumstances relating to her daughter. “Jemma,” she said toward the back seat, “why didn’t you tell me all of this?”

            Jemma forced out a weak laugh. “Fitz—I mean, Leo tells it better.”

            If her mother noticed the slip, she said nothing of it. Fitz was looking out the window now, his neck a telltale red. Perhaps he was embarrassed because he thought Jemma was taking him seriously. But he was only fulfilling his promise to her—right? He was simply a better actor than she expected, that’s all. And he was doing what she herself had suggested a few hours earlier: _The most believable lies are the ones closest to the truth._

            And that’s why her pulse was still racing, she told herself firmly as they pulled into the drive. Because it was a very believable lie.

* * *

            “Jemma!” Bobbi was halfway down the drive as soon as Margaret killed the car engine. Jemma leapt from the back seat to return her stepsister’s hug, pleased that at least one part of the weekend required no deception. She really was happy to see Bobbi again.

            Hunter was hovering in his socks just inside the door, eyeing the icy drive with distaste. “It’s great to see you, Jem,” he called toward them, “just not wet-sock great.”

            Bobbi stepped back from the hug, rolling her eyes as she moved away. “Trust me when I say I’m _so_ glad you’re here.”

            Jemma laughed, her nerves quickly returning as she spotted Fitz getting out of the car. Bobbi had noticed him, too, by the way her smile grew and her eyes sparked with curiosity. Dangerous curiosity.

            “Bobbi,” Jemma said as Fitz took the suitcases from the boot, “this is my boyfriend, Leo. Leo, this is Bobbi.”

            Fitz tried to tuck one case under his left arm so he could shake Bobbi’s hand with his right. Unfortunately for him, the shape and weight of the suitcase did not comply with his plans, and it began to slip away before he could finish the handshake.

            Bobbi dove for the case just in time. “Whoa there,” she said, still grinning. “I’m glad Jemma picked a gentleman, but I want you to make it through the door.”

            Fitz reddened, but laughed, and Jemma took a moment to silently thank the combination of circumstances that had given her Bobbi as a sister. The tall, blonde beauty was gifted at making people feel at ease. She had never, in Jemma’s memory, fumbled a conversation or made a single clumsy move.

            That particular talent would come in handy on this trip.

            Margaret, already on her way inside, turned back when she reached Hunter and the doorway. “Come on, girls. Frank is dying to meet Leo.” Spotting Bobbi carrying Jemma’s suitcase, she added, “Blimey, Jemma, did you pack the whole flat?” before disappearing inside the house.

            Bobbi rolled her eyes in Jemma’s direction. To Fitz, she said, “Now you know why Jemma was afraid to bring you home.”

            “Yeah,” he said, somewhat breathlessly, and Jemma hoped her nerves didn’t show when she laughed again as Bobbi led them indoors.

* * *

            Hunter held out a hand for Fitz to shake as soon as they were safely indoors. “Pleasure to meet you, mate,” he said.

            Fitz returned the handshake, opening his mouth to respond, but Margaret interrupted before he could speak. “Now, Bobbi, can you show them to the spare room? And Jemma, dear, you might want to change before tea.”

            Jemma bit back her reply. The less she antagonized her mother, the easier all of this would go. If that meant taking one or two of the usual hits about her appearance, her work habits, or whatever else her mother had chosen for that day, then so be it.

            Bobbi’s eyes were sympathetic as she led Jemma and Fitz upstairs. At least one of them was on Jemma’s side, she thought. Not to mention the fact that Fitz seemed to be making a good impression. In fact, the introductions had gone much smoother than Jemma had allowed herself to imagine—

            But no sooner had she thought it then she remembered where they were headed. The spare room. The spare room with one bed.

            One bed that she had conveniently not mentioned to Fitz.

            Jemma’s heart began to race as they reached the first floor landing and Bobbi led them down the hall. Her stepsister was chatting easily with Fitz about what he thought of London. By his tentative responses, Jemma thought he sounded as much at ease as she could have expected. If only that would last beyond the next thirty seconds or so.

            Sure enough, Fitz froze on the threshold of the room as Bobbi shoved the door open and tossed Jemma’s suitcase on the bed. Crossing her arms and leaning against the wall, Bobbi turned back to face them, her easy grin fading when she caught them both hesitating out in the hall.

            Damn damn damn. Bobbi would notice instantly that something was up. She could read people like books. By the way she was glancing back and forth between Fitz and Jemma, she already had.

            Jemma had to act quickly, or the interrogation would begin.

            “Don’t worry, Fitz,” she said, taking his arm by the elbow. If possible, he became even stiffer beside her, as if he’d turned to stone. “Mum turns the heat down at night.”

            Bobbi’s face relaxed—slightly—but her eyes remained narrow. “Trouble sleeping when it’s warm?” she asked.

            “Actually, I’m—” Jemma heard Fitz’s hesitation and gave his arm a squeeze. He stopped talking, swallowed, then said, “I mean, yes.”

            Bobbi pushed off from the bedroom wall and dropped her arms, moving to leave the room. Jemma let go of Fitz and stepped aside to let her through. Once out in the hall, Bobbi glanced back to say her parting words. “You must be warm-blooded. Just like Jemma.”

            Oh no. Oh no no no. Jemma couldn’t exactly take Fitz’s arm again in front of her sister—it would be too obvious the second time. But her fingers itched to do so, to signal via arm-squeeze that Fitz should _not_ respond. After all, he could have no way of knowing that Jemma was in fact cold most of the time, especially when she went to bed, and she frequently employed all sorts of tricks—hot water bottles, electric blankets—to keep from freezing at night.

            But Bobbi knew that.

            All this went through her mind in milliseconds, and Jemma opened her mouth to intervene, but she was not fast enough. Her lungs tightened when she heard Fitz respond, “Yeah, exactly. Just like Jemma.”

            Bobbi smiled. She slid her eyes from Fitz to Jemma, and her smile grew, complete with an eyebrow raise. To Fitz, it probably looked like some kind of cute insinuation, like an _aren’t-you-two-adorable-with-your-sleeping-habits_ kind of smile. But Jemma recognized it as something far more dangerous.

            Bobbi knew something was up.

            “Well, I’d better get changed,” Jemma said brightly, and she shut the bedroom door in Bobbi’s face.

* * *

            “Oh, this is bad,” Jemma said, pacing back and forth behind the closed bedroom door. “This is very, very bad.”

            “It’s all right,” said Fitz, moving to sit on the bed. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

            Jemma froze. “What? No, not that.” She waved a hand as if sweeping the subject aside. “I packed a sleeping bag. But Bobbi—”

            “Hang on. You mean, you knew about the one bed thing and you didn’t tell me?”

            Jemma chose to continue pacing rather than face him. “I knew it wouldn’t be a factor,” she said. “I told you, I’ll sleep on the floor.”

            “I don’t mind,” Fitz said quickly. “It’s just, I thought you said all I had to do was act.”

            “And you told me that wouldn’t be a problem.”

            She glanced at him and caught him frowning, his eyebrows lowered. “It’s not. Am I missing something?”

            “Only the fact that now Bobbi knows we’ve never slept together in our lives.”

            “What?”

            Jemma sighed. This wasn’t Fitz’s fault. It was her own stupid idea to do this in the first place, and if she hadn’t prepared him properly, she was, of course, to blame. He couldn’t have known she was cold all the time. It’s not like they were psychically linked. She laughed humorlessly and fell back on the mattress with about a foot between them. “I’m always cold,” she said. “So, when you said . . .”

            “Just like Jemma,” he said, and then he dropped his face into his hands and groaned. “I’m sorry,” he said through his fingers. “It caught me off guard.”

            “How could you have known?” Jemma stared up at the ceiling rather than at him. She felt like a horrible person for putting him in this position. After all, he was doing _her_ a favor. A paid favor, but still. And he hadn’t even liked her in the first place. “Listen, it’s not a big deal. Maybe we’re just taking it slow. Or you’ve never slept at my place before. There are plenty of logical explanations.”

            “You mean, other than ‘I’m paying him to be my boyfriend for a night’?”

            “Yeah.” Jemma knew she shouldn’t be finding the situation amusing, but when he said it like that, she couldn’t help but laugh again—for real this time. “Other than that.”

            At the sound of her laughter, he raised his head from his hands and glanced back at her. To Jemma’s surprise, he smiled, too, and it lit up his eyes like a moon over water. She hitched over her own laughter at the sight, startled by the transformation that came over him.

            Fortunately, he didn’t notice. “You want to know something else?” he asked. His smile grew further. “I’m always cold, too.”

            For some reason, this was even funnier than it should have been, and it made Jemma laugh again. Fitz joined her, leaning back on his palms, his legs swinging off the end of the bed. Even though there was space between them, Jemma could feel his presence as if they were touching. She felt every move that the mattress made beneath her from his shifting weight. She closed her eyes and let her stress leave her, just for a moment, enjoying the twinge of excitement mixed in with the humor—an excitement she couldn’t quite explain.

            They were silenced abruptly by a knock at the door. “Jem?”

            “Yes?” Why had her voice just jumped an octave higher?

            “Margaret says to hurry.”

            “Yes, we’ll be right down.”

            “And she says to put on some mascara for the family photo. Her words, not mine.”

            Jemma heard the sympathy in Bobbi’s voice, but it did nothing to quiet her racing pulse. “Family photo?” she asked in a squeak.

            “Oh, did she not mention it on the phone?” Bobbi’s voice faded down the hall, but Jemma distinctly heard what could only be described as a mischievous cackle there at the end. So much for sympathy.

            Well, there was nothing for it. Jemma _had_ brought a nice dress to wear to dinner, considering it was a bit of a family tradition for them to put on their best. She’d even warned Fitz the day before to pack something nice. She had hoped to put it off as long as possible, but her mother could be very hard to delay.

            She stood up and hurried around the mattress to where Bobbi had flung her suitcase. Jemma, as always, had packed everything in its place, complete with a dress bag to protect the nicest thing she owned from unnecessary wrinkles or stains. She took this out along with her makeup bag before remembering Fitz.

            When she glanced up at him, he was standing awkwardly near the wall, smoothing some invisible lint from his cardigan. He caught her face turned in his direction and, while not exactly meeting her eye, looked up. “Should I—that is—should I wait up here?”

            “What? No, you’ll need to be in it. Trust me.”

            “But—she said _family—_ ”

            Jemma juggled her items between hands in order to scoop up a pair of heels. “In case you hadn’t noticed, my mother can’t wait to include you in ours.” Jemma grimaced as she shut her case. “She’s probably dying for a permanent record of your existence.”

            But as she made her way to the bedroom door, she caught Fitz’s frown. Perhaps this was all too much. The family photos, the shared bed—the whole idea had been far too intimate and ridiculous to share with a colleague who didn’t even like her. Feeling a flash of guilt at the expression on his face, she said in a quiet voice, “Look, I know this is . . . weird. All we have to do is get through tonight. I’ll make up an excuse for you to leave early tomorrow. I promise.”

            To her surprise, Fitz began shaking his head. So he was giving up already. She couldn’t blame him, even if she had felt—something—when they were side by side, laughing together.

            Yet he surprised her even more by saying, “No, it’s not that. It’s just . . . well . . . from what you said, I was expecting your family to be . . . different.”  
            Jemma frowned. She felt her makeup bag slipping from her fingers and readjusted her grip, taking the break in conversation to formulate a response. Was he saying they were worse than he expected? Not that she could blame him, if so. “What do you mean?”

            His eyes flicked up to hers from the direction of the floor, stunning her once again with their color and depth. “They really care about you, that’s all. Enough to put me in a family photo . . . just like that. And they don’t even known me.”

            She parted her lips to respond, but the words wouldn’t come. She had expected Fitz to complain, yes; to beg off their deal, maybe. To refuse to cooperate in some stupid family tradition, certainly. And here he was putting her in her place, not for involving him, but for lying to her family in the first place.

            The moment to give a flippant response had passed. Instead, the silence hung awkward and heavy between them, and Jemma felt an uncomfortable heat rising to her face. She hated for Fitz to see her like this, so flustered and overcome by her emotions, and the situation was worse because _his_ insight had provoked such feelings. Was she really so easy to unbalance? And there was something else, something beneath all of the confusing embarrassment. Something like _guilt._ “I’m going to change in the loo,” she said, her words rushed. “I’ll meet you downstairs.” And then she made her escape.

* * *

            By the time she was descending to the ground floor, a steadying hand on the railing, Jemma felt much more in control. So Fitz had surprised her with his appreciation of her family’s quirks. So much the better. After all, he was here to impress her mother so that Jemma would not ruin Christmas—for herself or for the rest of them—by yet again showing up single. If Fitz could see the good in Margaret, and she the good in him, the evening would only continue to go as planned.

            And a brief aside with Bobbi should serve to rectify the whole temperature misunderstanding.

            _Yes_ , Jemma assured herself, _everything is under control._

            “See what a difference some mascara can make?” Her mum’s voice did minor damage to Jemma’s inner calm, but she persevered, managing a smile.

            “Thanks, Mum,” Jemma said between gritted teeth, taking her place in the family lineup before the fireplace. Fitz was at the end of the line, so she moved to stand beside him. He must have recently endured an introduction to Jemma’s stepfather, Frank, who was busy setting up the camera. Frank was a large, cheerful American whose goodhearted earnestness made him a perfect candidate for Margaret’s micro-managing. Yet his grin was genuine and worry-free, as always, when he greeted Jemma from across the room.

            “Can you fit us all in, Frank?” Margaret asked, going over to check the camera herself. Jemma let out a breath of relief as her mother moved out of sight.

            “You _do_ look nice, Jem,” said Hunter from the other side. “Is that a new dress?”

            The teasing in his voice was not lost on Jemma. Hunter knew perfectly well that the strapless, knee-length black gown had been Jemma’s bridesmaid dress for her stepsister’s wedding. Its silky fabric, sweetheart neckline, and flaring skirt made it the only passable party dress that Jemma owned, meaning it had appeared annually in the Morse-Simmons family Christmas photo for the past several years. “Ha, ha,” Jemma said down the line, hovering at least a foot away from Fitz.

            “Scoot in, Jemma,” said Margaret, her eyes on the camera. Jemma stepped obediently closer to Fitz, leaving room for a bicycle to pass between them. “Closer! Leo, can you put your arm around her? I want to get the tree just over her shoulder.”

            Jemma chose not to look at Fitz as she shuffled closer, her heels digging into the carpet. But then she felt his arm snaking around her waist, slipping with cautious tenderness into the slope between her ribs and her hips. She could not help glancing down at his milky-white fingers, stark in contrast to the black fabric of her dress. She had seen them from across the lab a hundred times, deftly connecting wires and components, but she’d never imagined they would be splayed against her waistline as they were right now. Tugging her closer.

            Her own arm came up to encircle him before she’d even realized what was happening. She nestled her grip into his side before he could notice how her fingers were suddenly, inexplicably trembling. She was being an idiot. It was only a hug. Half a hug! And he hadn’t even looked at her.

            But then he turned his head—just a few inches above her own—and whispered in her ear, “I have to agree with Hunter. You _do_ look nice in that dress.”

            Jemma wanted to look over at him, but surprise held her in place. How different those words had sounded coming from Fitz rather than her brother-in-law. She felt a sudden sense of satisfaction, of _pleasure_ , and she realized that the extra care she’d taken before coming downstairs—the makeup, the way she pinned up her hair in the back—it had been specifically to provoke this outcome. To see if the dress, at least, would get Fitz to speak.

            And now that it had, she didn’t know how to reply.

            “Perfect! Aw, you look lovely.” Margaret was practically rubbing her hands together with glee. “Now, Jemma, don’t get all stiff like that. Frank, are we ready?”

            “Ten-second timer starts . . . now.” Frank clicked a button on the camera and rushed to take his place along with Margaret in the lineup. They stood beside Hunter and Bobbi, leaving Fitz and Jemma on the end. Jemma felt Fitz’s fingers move ever-so-slightly at her waist, and then, just in time, she remembered to smile.

            The camera flashed, and Fitz’s arm dropped from her waist. She pulled away her own, then wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly cold. She could see goosebumps on her bare arms.

            “Lovely! Shall we check it?” Margaret was already halfway to the camera. “Oh, it’s—it’s our best one yet. It’s really _so_ nice to have symmetry, don’t you think, Jemma, dear? And Leo is so photogenic—”

            Jemma caught Bobbi’s eye and gave her a Look. “So, Margaret, does that mean it’s cocktail time?” Bobbi asked in immediate response, and Jemma once again gave thanks for her sister.

            “Well, we could take a few more just in case—”

            “I for one could use a drink,” Jemma said quickly.

            “Oh, all right then,” Margaret said, turning off the camera and rejoining their group. “I need to check the roast anyway. Frank? Could you take drink orders?”

            “Actually, Jem and I can do it,” said Bobbi. “That way the boys can talk football.” She winked at Jemma’s startled expression.

            On second thought, Bobbi’s subtle directing skills could be dangerous if used against you. Jemma wondered briefly what her sister was up to, but this fleeting thought turned to panic when she realized she’d forgotten to ask Fitz about his football team. God, if it were Chelsea—or worse—

            “Are you a football man, Leo?” asked Frank good-naturedly as Bobbi and Margaret headed for the kitchen.

            “Er—”

            “Frank? Hunter? Drink orders?” Jemma asked, keeping her voice bright.

            “Whatever beer Margaret’s got is fine for me, Jemma,” Frank answered.    

            “Same,” said Hunter. Then, completely ignoring the pleading expression in Jemma’s eyes, he pressed, “Go on, Leo, tell us who you support. We _probably_ won’t kill you.” He half-smiled. “Depending.”

            Jemma bit her lip, wondering how to signal _Liverpool_ via arm-squeeze if necessary. Her father and Hunter were both die-hard fans, and it was the quickest way to get on their good sides. However, she winced as Fitz said, “To be honest, I don’t really follow it much.”

            There was a brief silence during which Jemma considered departing for the kitchen and leaving Fitz to the wolves. However, to her surprise, Frank chuckled and clapped Fitz on the shoulder. “You could’ve said much worse,” he joked. “Like Manchester United, for one.”

            “Do you watch any sport?” Hunter asked—but with genuine curiosity, not judgment, in his voice. As Fitz went on to explain that sport wasn’t _really_ his area, Frank and Hunter defied Jemma’s expectations completely by pressing Fitz with questions about his labwork instead.

            In fact, once Fitz started talking in earnest, Jemma found it hard to leave the conversation. Frank and Hunter nodded along, showing interest if not complete understanding. She’d always imagined that whenever she discovered a man she liked enough to bring home, he’d have to fit in with Frank the way Hunter had: conversation about football, beer, and world news. Yet here they were, showing at least a mild fascination with Fitz’s meditations on the structural properties of recently discovered metals.

            “Hey, Jemma? Got the orders?” It was Bobbi, calling from the kitchen.

            “Oh! Yeah, um, be right there.” Jemma smiled at the men, including Fitz, who managed to meet her eyes again for the briefest of moments. She couldn’t quite read what was in his expression, but she saw enough to know he wasn’t crying out for help to escape the conversation. She went into the kitchen with some peace of mind—only to ask herself one question: _why_ was she so happy that Fitz and her family were getting along?

* * *

            “So. Leo seems like a nice guy.”

            Jemma looked over at her sister. Bobbi was using her _I’m-about-to-manipulate-this-conversation_ voice, which usually meant Jemma would come up with an excuse to walk away. Since Margaret had sent them both out to the garage to get more beer, however, there wasn’t any place to walk away _to_. “Why do I feel like there’s a ‘but’ in here somewhere?”

            “Yeah, that part’s not bad either,” Bobbi teased, nudging Jemma with an elbow.

            “Wha—?” It took a second, but Jemma caught on and, to her embarrassment, blushed. Fortunately, it was dim inside the garage. “Very funny.”

            “Sorry, couldn’t resist.” Bobbi skirted Frank’s car to reach the second refrigerator, where she promptly began digging around. “There’s just one thing I can’t figure out.”

            “What’s that?” Jemma asked. The longer she avoided this conversation, the worse it would be when it came. Besides, she _had_ been planning to explain the temperature thing to Bobbi during a quiet moment.

            “If he’s never slept at your place, and you’ve never slept at his, _where_ have you been getting it on?”

            Jemma immediately wished she’d put this off longer. “Look, we’re—we’re taking it slow, okay?”

            “Six months slow?” Bobbi’s head appeared over the refrigerator door. “Wow, you must really like this guy.”

            Jemma glared at her. “Maybe I do.”

            “What’s his middle name?”

            Jemma blinked. “What?”

            “I said, what’s his middle name?”

            “Um—er—John,” said Jemma lamely.

            Bobbi’s face said, _Really?_ _Couldn’t do better than that?_

            “—Nathon. Jonathon.”

            Bobbi rolled her eyes and returned to digging in the fridge. “What’s his favorite color?”

            “Blue,” Jemma said quickly. This was going to have to be like a psychologist’s word game where she spat out whatever came to mind first. Bobbi could sense hesitation. And besides, Fitz had changed into a shirt the color of his eyes for the family photo—

            “Birthday?”

            “August 19th.” _Thank God for Donnie and his donuts_ , Jemma thought, remembering the day that summer when they’d celebrated. Fitz had been secretly pleased, she thought, except he’d gone all red and stuttering when she’d wished him happy birthday. And then he’d ignored her. For the rest of the week.

            “Favorite show?”

            “Doctor Who.” It happened to be Jemma’s, so it would have to do.

            Bobbi was silent for a second. Jemma heard only the clinking of food and drink being shifted around and let out her breath, hoping for a reprieve. But then Bobbi stood, her arms full of beer, and closed the fridge door with a toe. “Moment when you realized you were falling for him?”

            Jemma stared. “I’m sorry?”

            “You heard me.” Bobbi was smirking. That was never a good sign. And she hadn’t moved from the fridge, which meant she was going to stand there in the garage with her hands full until Jemma said something. But Jemma’s mind had gone blank—an annoyingly familiar reaction when it was faced with an off-the-cuff lie.

            She cleared her throat. “I don’t know—”

            “Could it have been when you arrived on the train? Or when he helped unload your suitcase? Or . . . when he put his arm around you for the photo?”

            Jemma couldn’t have spoken even if she wanted to, because her mouth went dry at that moment. She knew. _Of course_ Bobbi knew. She was too damned good at reading people, at reading _Jemma_ , who was also a terrible actress when she had to improvise. Like right now. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said in a croak.

            Bobbi shifted the beer bottles and started back toward where Jemma stood. “Oh, I think you do. So tell me. How do you _really_ know him? Is he even named Leo?”

            “I—”

            “He’s not just a stranger off the streets, right? Because Margaret is going to flip when she finds out.”

            Three solutions ran through Jemma’s mind. Option one: continue to lie, even though Bobbi wouldn’t believe her, and hope she could keep up the premise all evening, despite the barrage of pressure that Bobbi would surely deliver. Option two: tell Bobbi the truth and beg her to play along. Option three: turn around and walk back into the house without answering. Get her suitcase. Get Fitz. Leave.

            As much as she hated to admit it, option three was probably out.

            Jemma sighed. Where Bobbi was involved, it was best to stick to the truth. “His name is Leopold Fitz, all right? Leo Fitz, but he goes by Fitz normally. He—he works in my lab.”

            Bobbi raised an eyebrow. “And?”

            “And I paid him to be my boyfriend for a night.” Jemma crossed her arms. “Are you happy now?”

            Bobbi chuckled and raised her eyes to the ceiling. “Oh, this is _good_. This is better than that year Hunter burned down the shed.”

            Jemma’s voice fell to a sharp whisper. “Bobbi, listen. You have to back me up, all right? I . . . I don’t want Mum knowing I lied about having a boyfriend. I’d never hear the end of it.”

            Bobbi only laughed harder. “Oh my God, this is great. You! _You’ve_ been lying for months.” Even with two six-packs of beer stacked in her arms, she managed to wipe a tear from her eye. “I don’t believe this.”

            “Please,” Jemma pleaded. “ _Please_ don’t tell Mum. It’s only for one night.”

            As the last of Bobbi’s laughter died away and her face became gradually more serious, Jemma began to want the teasing back. Bobbi was looking at her with a new gleam in her eye. “So you told Margaret that you were dating a guy named Leo,” she said slowly. “But he was really just your co-worker, and now you’ve hired him to stand in for the real thing.”

            Jemma gritted her teeth. “Pretty much,” she said after a silence.

            “Hmm.”

            “What do you mean, ‘hmm’?”

            Bobbi shrugged, the beer bottles clinking as her shoulders settled back into place. “Nothing. I’m just—thinking.”

            “ _Thinking_ about what?”

            “It’s kind of a weird coincidence, that’s all.”

            “I said the first name that came to mind.”

            “Did you?” Bobbi’s eyebrows shot to her hairline. “So you think about him a lot?”

            Jemma’s arms were still crossed, but she clenched her fists in place to vent her irritation. “Look, are you going to cover for me or not?”

            Bobbi smiled—the tiniest lift of her lip. A dangerous smile: a satisfied one. “Oh, I’ll play along,” she said.

            Somehow that did not make Jemma feel any better.

* * *

            “What took you so long?” asked Margaret when Jemma and Bobbi returned to the kitchen. She was testing the roast with a meat thermometer, an apron on over her nice dress. “We’re just about ready to eat.”

            “Right.” Bobbi said. “Do you want anything to drink, Margaret?”

            “Some wine would be nice,” she said. “Why don’t you open a bottle? Red, I think, unless someone else has a preference.”

            Bobbi and Jemma busied themselves with pouring all the drinks. Jemma embraced the task with relief, as it meant they didn’t have to make conversation. She felt as if she’d just been through an interrogation as rough as the oral defense for her second thesis. How could Bobbi have read the situation so quickly? And _how_ could Jemma’s meticulous plan to speak to Bobbi alone have gone so horribly wrong? As worrying as those questions were, there was something else bothering Jemma—something Bobbi had implied with all her questions. Something that Jemma didn’t quite want to admit.

            Before long, Jemma found herself seated at the dining table next to Fitz, passing around dishes as if in a trance. Hunter, Frank, and Fitz had fallen into a friendly rapport in the prep-time before dinner, and Jemma was both surprised and pleased that their conversation carried over to the meal itself. It meant she didn’t have to work to keep Fitz in the loop—or worry about every word he said.

            Until the conversation _somehow_ veered around to Margaret’s favorite topic.

            “So tell me, Leo, dear,” she said, in a voice that overrode whatever else was being said (and jerked Jemma from her stupor). “How serious _are_ you and Jemma, exactly?”

            “Mum!”

            “What?” Margaret turned innocent eyes toward Jemma. “If you won’t answer these kind of questions, perhaps he will.”

            “They aren’t the sort of questions you _ask_ over tea,” Jemma replied in a sharp whisper.

            Margaret reached out and patted her hand. “Jemma, you’ve _finally_ brought a nice young man home. Can’t you just let me enjoy the moment? Then tomorrow he’ll be gone and you can relax.”

            “If by ‘relax’ you mean ‘be as silent and secretive as ever,’ then you’re right, she probably will,” said Hunter from across the table. Jemma glared at him, but in giving up the fight against her mother for a moment, she lost it.

            “Well, Leo? Don’t be shy. I’m sure you’re used to Jemma by now. She’ll get over it.”

            Jemma rolled her eyes.

            “Er, well . . .” Fitz’s voice was quiet. “I suppose . . . I suppose we’ve talked about moving in together. A bit.”

            Jemma glanced sideways at him. He was staring down at his plate, swirling his fork in a pile of mushy peas. But the tops of his ears were turning red.

            “And what are your thoughts on marriage?”

            Jemma’s head jerked away from Fitz to the other side of the table, where Bobbi’s dangerous smile was back. She was leaning her chin on her hands, her expression as innocent as it could be after asking such a question.

            “I’ve—I’ve never thought about it.”

            Jemma almost groaned out loud. Her mother’s relationship-senses would be tingling at those words, and not in a good way. Surely _anyone_ hired to be a boyfriend, even a socially-awkward scientist, _had_ to know that wasn’t the right answer to such a question. Or perhaps this was Fitz’s revenge—sabotaging everything for her in the worst way.

            Maybe she was right after all, and he _really_ couldn’t stand her.

            “I mean, I’ve thought about it,” Fitz corrected quickly, catching Jemma off guard. “Just not . . .”

_Not with me_ , she thought, and it hurt far more than she’d expected it to. She berated herself even as she registered that the words upset her. How could she be disappointed over her nonexistent boyfriend and his fake wedding fantasies?

            Never mind that—how could she be disappointed to hear those words from _Leopold Fitz?_

            “ . . . seriously,” Fitz said into the thick silence. Jemma thought he was starting a new idea, but when he didn’t elaborate, she realized he was finishing his former sentence. He’d thought about it, just not seriously? _Well, maybe he’s finally catching on to the whole “acting” part of this_ , she thought to herself, though the relief she felt was for far different reasons. She chose not to investigate those reasons as Fitz continued, “I mean, I guess I thought—when you meet the right person—I thought it would happen on its own. As it was meant to happen.”

            “How sweet,” said Margaret, and for once, Jemma was glad she had interrupted. Fitz’s words had raised unexpected and confusing emotions, making her want the subject changed—and fast. “That’s really wonderful, Leo.” A pause, then, “Jemma’s chosen such a romantic bloke. It’s unlike her. Isn’t that right, Jemma?”

            “Ha,” Jemma said, imbuing her tone with sarcasm, she hoped, and not the nervous insecurity she felt inside. After that, Margaret turned the conversation toward her own wedding with Frank, and the reminiscing carried them through dessert, especially as Bobbi and Hunter joined in.

            Jemma could not bring herself to look at Fitz through all of this. She could not explain, not even to herself, why after months of staring at him across the lab, hoping he would speak, she could not make eye contact with the man when he was sitting right next to her. Yet, just like on the mattress earlier, she felt his presence as if each atom registered on a tracker in her mind: when he shifted his arm to reach for his drink, she felt it move, barely brushing the fine hairs on her own. When his leg moved under the table, almost close enough to touch hers, but not quite, she knew it was there all the same. There was a magnetic pull in his movements that no science could explain.

            If any of her family members noticed her silence, they didn’t comment, and before long, Margaret and Hunter were clearing the last empty dishes from the table.

            “Now, Margaret, you know that I’m in charge of the washing up,” Hunter was saying. Margaret tried to put up an argument, but Bobbi stopped her.

            “Just let him have this one thing,” she said. Hunter mock-whipped her with his dishcloth in retaliation before disappearing into the kitchen.

            Frank, on the other hand, was fighting to stifle a huge yawn. “Well,” he said around it, “that was wonderful. Margaret, thank you, dear.”

            “Yes, thank you, Mum,” Jemma said.

            “It was delicious,” said Fitz.

            Margaret’s answering smile was directed straight at him. “We’re so happy to have you with us, Leo. It was our pleasure.”

            “And don’t they make a lovely couple?” Bobbi prompted, her smile much more sadistic than Margaret’s—at least to Jemma’s eyes.

            “They do,” Margaret said, oblivious, and then she jumped up from the table with an “oh!” that startled them all. “I nearly forgot.” She bustled to a corner cabinet, pulled open a drawer, and held up a sprig of something green between her fingers. “Mistletoe!”

            “Oooh,” said Bobbi, her smile growing. “What a _wonderful_ idea.”

            “What?” Jemma asked, looking back and forth between them both. “I really don’t think—”

            “Oh, come on, humor us.” Bobbi jumped up from the table and retrieved the mistletoe from Margaret in a blur of movement that Jemma could barely follow. Two blinks later and she stood behind Jemma and Fitz, mistletoe held above their heads. “Surely two _lovebirds_ such as yourselves couldn’t resist.”

            Jemma twisted her hands in her lap beneath the table. She had to do that in order to prevent herself from using them to maim or possibly kill. _So much for playing along_ , she thought to herself, in the part of her brain that was not yet murderous.

            After a hesitation, she turned to face Fitz, mostly to tell him that they didn’t have to go through with this charade. She’d seen his face when he saw the single bed in their spare room. A kiss would be too much. But as her eyes lifted from his collarbone to his lips, she couldn’t help parting her own a bit in anticipation of her words. And if her breathing picked up ever-so-slightly before her eyes met his, it was only because she feared the embarrassment that would inevitably result from this situation. And if she leaned imperceptibly toward him, it was only because . . .

            . . . He was leaning toward her.

            She barely caught a flash of blue before his eyelids fell, and then his lips were on hers, tender and brief, as if one touch would scatter her on the wind like dandelion seeds. She’d never been kissed like that, like something precious and fragile. She’d closed her own eyes without meaning to, without noticing, and her pulse raced as she opened them again and caught him leaning back, staring. He was so far away— _too_ far away.

            “How . . . sweet,” said Bobbi, but Jemma didn’t notice, because she was too busy leaning toward him again. One traitorous hand snaked up around his neck, nestling in his hair, while the other found his collar and _tugged_ , bringing his lips to hers twice as fast as before. She felt—heard—tasted his ragged breathing and pressed into him even harder, glad of the way it mirrored her own. The blood was pounding in her ears, counting out the seconds. _Two. Five. Ten._

            “That’s more like it,” Bobbi said from somewhere behind them as Jemma pulled away at last. Her footsteps moved back toward Margaret, but Jemma barely registered this, lost as she was in the sight of Fitz staring back at her. His collar had been rumpled, and through it, she could see the skin of his chest rising and falling in rapid sequence. She could even see his pulse beating out a frantic rhythm beneath a patch of skin at his throat. She tore her eyes away from the temptation it presented and searched for his reaction in his face.

            What she saw there made her skin, so recently warmed, go cold and clammy. His eyes were on the floor—on his hands, which rested in his lap, or on the tablecloth, perhaps. Anywhere but on her. Just like all those days at the lab, when she would speak across to his workstation and he would refuse to reply, only this time, she’d said a hell of a lot more than “Good morning.”

            Jemma shoved back her chair and stood so quickly that her heel slipped beneath her and her ankle wobbled. She stuck out a hand to catch herself, and to her surprise, Fitz did, too. He caught her by the waist, his fingers splayed, palm toward her. His fingertips brushed the bottom of her bra.

            She leapt back as if his touch had burned a hole through her dress. When she glanced away from him—anywhere but him—she spotted Margaret and Bobbi, both watching her with varying levels of concern.

            “Are you all right, Jemma?” Margaret asked after a moment.

            “Fine. Yes. Of course.” Jemma brushed her palms down her skirt. “I’m just—tired. All of a sudden. I should get to bed.”

            “Me too,” said Fitz. He tried to stand, but his chair hit Jemma as he pushed away from the table, causing him to freeze and stammer out an apology.

            “It’s fine,” Jemma said. How could everything have gone so wrong, so quickly? Didn’t Fitz realize that she just wanted to get away from _him?_ But now there was nothing for it. “I’ll see you upstairs.” To her shame, she felt hot moisture pricking her eyelids. Tears? She hadn’t cried over anything as foolish as a—a relationship—a _fake_ relationship in years. She blinked them away and turned an overbright smile to Margaret and Bobbi. “Goodnight. Thanks again for dinner, Mum.”

            “Of course, dear.” Jemma didn’t have the energy to analyze her mother’s tone or to inspect Bobbi’s expression. A second later, she was climbing the stairs, trying to block out the sound of Fitz’s footsteps behind her.

            “Sleep tight!” Margaret called after them from downstairs.

            Jemma could’ve laughed if she hadn’t been feeling so miserable.

            She doubted she’d be getting much sleep that night.

* * *

            Jemma could only spend so much time in the bathroom completing her “nighttime routine” before it became ridiculous. Which was how she ended up, over thirty minutes later, creeping into the bedroom and hoping Fitz had fallen asleep.

            No such luck. “Jemma?” he asked when she walked in.

            She bit back the snarky reply she wanted to make—“Who else would it be?”—and said instead, “Yes, over here.” The lights were already off—thank goodness—and the room became black as pitch when Jemma shut the door behind her. Oh, and it was also freezing. _Wonderful._

            She made her way slowly to her suitcase, careful to run a hand along the wall and therefore avoid walking into anything. Once she’d put away her makeup bag and toiletries, she worked her way back to where she knew the sleeping bag would be beside the bed.

            . . . Only to crawl over a very soft, human someone when she knelt to get inside.

            “Ah!” She shuffled backwards, still crawling, and backed right into another wall. “Sorry, I didn’t realize—”

            “My fault,” he said, and as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could see the shape of him as he sat up. “I should have warned you.”

            “I thought you were in the bed,” she said, hoping he wouldn’t think she’d been trying to crawl in with him. The indignity of that made her face flush with heat. Well, at least that solved her temperature problem.

            “You should take the bed,” he said. “Please. I insist.”

            “But I brought the sleeping bag for myself.”

            “It wouldn’t be fair. This is your house.”

            “My mother’s house.”

            “Now you’re just being pedantic.”

            “I am not being pedantic, I’m—”

            “—wasting your time arguing about where to sleep when there’s a perfectly good bed behind you?”

            “A bed that _you_ could’ve been asleep in ages ago.” So much for wanting him to speak to her. He’d just said more words to her in the past minute than every day in the lab _combined_ , yet they’d only proved him to be the most infuriating human being alive. And it was all over a sleeping bag. “Just let me sleep on the floor.”

            “No.”

            Jemma sighed. “Fine.” If he wanted to have an uncomfortable night and a stiff neck in the morning, so be it. In fact, he probably deserved it. After all, what kind of guy kissed a girl like that and then refused to look at her? She pondered this as she stood and crept around him to the bed, fuming. And even as she lay beneath the duvet, staring at the dark ceiling, she asked herself that question over and over. As she tossed and turned for the next few hours, the question refused to leave her mind, always popping her back into alertness right as she thought she might fall asleep. It didn’t help that she could hear Fitz tossing and turning on the ground beside her— _and_ she was cold again.

            She dug her toes into the mattress, shivering, thinking about Fitz kissing her for the fiftieth time. No—thinking about _after_ Fitz kissed her. Or, technically, after he kissed her _and then_ she kissed him. Because it hadn’t been his idea to kiss again, had it? True, he hadn’t exactly pushed her away, but she’d been the one grabbing his collar. God, the memory made her cheeks burn with embarrassment all over again. Not quite enough to warm her freezing toes—but close. And then the way he’d barely brushed his lips to hers the first time, as if—

            “Jemma?”

            His voice was a whisper, so quiet she almost missed it beneath the roar of her thoughts. She cleared her throat, trying to settle on a tone that said, “I was definitely _not_ thinking about how it felt when you kissed me,” and said, “Yes?”

            “Do you have any extra blankets in here?”

            She could’ve laughed again. This was turning into the most ironic night of her life. “Only the ones on the bed you didn’t want to sleep in.”

            “Oh.”

            Considering she hadn’t heard him speak a lot, she could still hear the emotions he tried to hide in that one word. He must be pretty cold to sound so disappointed.

            Remembering their conversation from earlier—and her own difficulties—she relented. Logic told her how stupid it was that he should freeze all night when a perfectly good queen-sized bed could fit both of them. And they were adults. They should be able to stay on their respective sides for the next few hours.

            In fact, his apparent dislike of her should come in handy that way.

            She sighed. “You might as well sleep up here if you’re cold,” she said. “The bed is big enough. Just stay on your side.”

            A long pause. “It’s fine,” he said. “I’ll be all right—”

            “I’m not holding up my end of the deal if you freeze,” she said. It was a weak argument, but he must have heard the finality in her tone, because after another long silence, she heard the rustle of the sleeping bag as he crawled out of it, followed by his footsteps up to the bed. She felt the tug of the blankets and the dip of the mattress as he crawled into place.

            She had been right about one hypothesis: the bed felt a lot warmer all of a sudden.

            It felt a lot smaller, too. She inched so far to the right that her arm hit the edge of the mattress, but she could still feel the warmth of Fitz’s body a few inches away from hers. She silently cursed the extra-sensory awareness of him that she seemed to have developed in the space of a day.

            Although, that wasn’t technically true. She had always been aware of his presence in the lab. Perhaps that was why it had bothered her so much that he refused to speak to her. There was something about him that drew her from the very beginning. And all that time spent across from him, knowing when his face was turned in her direction, yet never catching him in the act. Knowing he was there during all those overtime hours. Knowing what he was working on.

            Just like he knew about her. She remembered their conversation at the café yesterday—though it felt as if it had been weeks ago. He’d been watching her work for _months_. He’d been paying such close attention that he had developed a prototype for her solution without _any_ hands-on experience with it.

            And that was probably the only reason why he talked to her at all the day before, she thought. That was the only reason he came on this bloody holiday. He wanted to co-author that paper.

            From the way he’d reacted after their kiss, it was clear he didn’t want anything else.

            And that was when the thought hit her, with as much force as if the shadowed ceiling above her had suddenly collapsed. The one thing she’d been avoiding all day—no, for weeks, for months, even. Ever since her mum had said on the phone, “That’s wonderful, dear! What’s his name?” and Jemma had blurted out, “Leo.”

            Jemma knew that denial could be a powerful emotion. After all, she considered herself to be a rational, sensible being, and it had survived in her up until that very moment. Denial had persisted through months of aborted conversations, through scores of made-up dates, through Bobbi’s interrogation, even through a bloody kiss. But it took Fitz crawling into bed beside Jemma and warming her to the tips of her toes before she would admit the one thing she’d been denying for so long.

            She liked Leopold Fitz. She had for a long time. And he really didn’t like her.

* * *

            By some miracle, Jemma managed to drift to sleep in the early hours of the morning, despite the confusion storming about in her mind. She had strange dreams, full of emotions that felt almost real, and when she woke, she felt groggy and disoriented.

            For that reason, it took her about a minute to realize her alarm had been going off. She moved to silence it and, even more slowly, realized that she couldn’t. Her arm was held in place by some weight.

            She glanced down and became suddenly, completely awake.

            Fitz’s arm held her in place, curled as it was around her, his fingers nestled against her collarbone. Where before she had been cozy and warm, she now felt hot all over, starting from the pricks of flesh that his fingertips touched. Her perception radiated out from those points, telling her that, yes, that was his body pressed along hers, his knees bent behind her own, his feet tangling with her ankles. His breathing on the back of her neck.

            Jemma registered two things immediately: first, that Fitz’s embrace felt wonderful and warm, more comforting than all her electric blankets and hot water bottles combined. Second, that she had to get out of it, and _fast._

            By the sound of things, he hadn’t woken up yet, and she wasn’t sure she could endure that closed-off, disappointed look in his eyes for the second time in twelve hours. Careful not to jostle him to alertness, Jemma began pushing Fitz’s arm off her, in tiny, excruciatingly slow bursts. She let out her breath when she was almost clear, but then—a sleepy sound. Something between a sigh and a moan. And his arm came back and hugged her, pulling her closer even than before.

            _Oh God oh God oh God._

            Jemma lay unmoving for several more minutes, contemplating her next move (and definitely _not_ enjoying her current warmth, thank-you-very-much). She was startled from her planning by the sound of her snoozed alarm ringing again.

            This time, Fitz noticed. He twitched in surprise and, a second later, she felt his entire body scuttle across the mattress. She squeezed her eyes shut as the heat of embarrassment flooded her senses. So much for avoiding that disappointed look.

            She let the alarm ring for a second longer, hoping Fitz would believe she hadn’t woken up, and then pretended to stretch awake to turn it off. She lay facing the opposite wall, her back to him, hoping he would get up from the mattress and leave the room, letting the moment pass. But, for some reason, he didn’t.

            Fine. If he was going to be like that, she would leave first.

            She pushed back the blankets—a bit more violently than she intended—and swung her feet down to the floor. Still facing away from him, she rubbed the sleep out of her eyes, then stood and stretched toward the ceiling. Maybe she could walk all the way around the bed without glancing his way—

            “Good—good morning,” he said, his voice rough from sleep.

            She pretended to be surprised that he was awake, turning around with feigned alacrity. “Oh! Good morning, Fitz.” There. For someone who had endured an emotional whirlwind of a night (and was also a terrible liar), that had sounded relatively normal. “Did you sleep well?”

            “Er—actually, yeah. Nice . . . bed.”

            “Wonderful.” Jemma turned away from his gaze to retrieve her toiletries. “I’m sure there will be coffee and tea downstairs. And I’ll let them know over breakfast that you have to leave right away.”

            “Oh. Right.”

            “I’ll just . . .” She let her words trail off and departed for the loo before he could say more. Before she could see that look on his face. The one with his downcast eyes. The one that said, _I wish I had never agreed to this_.

            A few minutes later, Jemma met her family at the breakfast table, already dressed in dark jeans and a sweater.

            “Jemma! You’re dressed early,” said Margaret by way of greeting. Jemma took her seat next to a groggy Fitz—who, she noticed, was wearing a gray t-shirt and flannel pajamas. His curls stuck up on one side of his head. She avoided looking at him again.

            “I just wanted to be ready to take Leo to the train station,” she explained. “He has to leave earlier than he thought.”

            “What? Oh, are you sure?” Margaret’s pleading was directed toward Fitz. “I had _so_ many things planned for today—we could take a walk in the woods out back, and—”

            “Well—”

            “No, his mum’s expecting him,” Jemma said, cutting him off. “And the train schedule is limited for the holidays. So he has to leave _soon_.” Let her mother be disappointed for a day. At this point, after everything that had happened, Jemma was no longer quite as worried about her mother ruining Christmas as she had been the day before. Having an unrequited crush on her co-worker felt much worse than anything Margaret could dish out.

            “What a shame,” said Margaret as Bobbi and Hunter brought food in from the kitchen. “Bobbi, did you hear that? Fitz has to leave early.”

            “You don’t say?”

            Jemma took a piece of toast from the stack that Bobbi brought in, hoping to silence her with a glare. Bobbi only smiled back as dangerously as ever. “Rough night?” she asked in a low murmur. Jemma prayed that Fitz hadn’t heard.

            “Well, it was great to meet you, Leo,” said Frank as Bobbi and Hunter took their seats. Dishes of eggs and bacon made their way around the table as Margaret and Bobbi joined in the chorus of pleasantries.

            “Yeah, and I made five quid,” added Hunter. “Bet with Bob that you weren’t real.”

            From the way Bobbi and Hunter both looked at her, Jemma couldn’t help but wonder which side of that bet Hunter had been on. She glared at them both.

            “Jemma’s normally such a morning person,” Margaret said in a loud whisper to Fitz. “But surely you know that.”

            This breakfast could not be over fast enough. Jemma ate a few pieces of toast with marmalade and downed several cups of tea for fortification. No sooner had she finished than she leapt from her seat, grabbing her plate and Fitz’s, even though he had a few bites of eggs left. “We’d better be off,” she said, already halfway to the kitchen to drop their dishes in the sink.

            The kitchen door swung shut on her family’s protests. Fitz, she noticed, remained silent until she came back out from the kitchen, when he said in a quiet voice, “I’d better go up and change.”

            “You do that,” said Jemma, and a second later he was up the stairs.

            “Shall we go warm up the car?” asked Bobbi, and before Jemma could respond that she didn’t need any help with that task, Bobbi was half-dragging her out the front door.

            “I’m quite capable of doing this myself,” said Jemma when they reached the car.

            Bobbi let go of her elbow and turned to face her. “Mm-hmm. Just like you’re _capable_ of being a mature adult? Oh, wait . . .”

            “What?”

            “Jemma, look at yourself. You’re head over heels with this fake boyfriend of yours. I knew from the minute I saw you together. You’ve got it _bad_.”

            “I’ve ‘got’ nothing, aside from a violent urge to leave this instant.”

            “Uh-huh. And a crush the size of the United Kingdom.”

            Jemma crossed her arms and gave Bobbi her most intimidating glare. She may have been cowed into admitting the truth the day before, but she was not about to do so again. Besides, this truth was far more dangerous in the wrong hands. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

            “Okay, have it your way. Throw away your best shot at a relationship because you’re too scared to admit how you really feel.”

            “That’s not—”

            “Jemma, I read people for a living. And I know you really well. So you can lie all you want—it won’t help.”

            “I’m not lying,” Jemma lied.

            “Fine,” said Bobbi with a sigh. “Be like that. But have you ever wondered if maybe ‘Leo’ is afraid to show his real feelings, too?”

            “You don’t even know him.”

            Bobbi raised her eyebrows. “Do you?”

            Jemma could think of nothing to say that might convince her sister how wrong she was. So she stayed silent instead. Bobbi stared back at her for a moment longer, then turned and headed back toward the house. “One more thing,” she said over her shoulder. “I wasn’t holding the mistletoe up the second time.”

            Jemma glared at Bobbi’s back.

* * *

            Before long, Fitz had come downstairs with the suitcases, said his goodbyes, and packed everything into the boot of the car. A minute longer and Jemma was driving him to the train station, her gaze straight ahead.

            “I thought that went pretty well,” said Fitz after ten minutes of oppressive silence.

            “I’ll bring your cash on Monday,” said Jemma, just in case he was afraid she wouldn’t follow through.

            Fitz said nothing after that, until she pulled into the car park at the train station. She turned off the car and got out to help him with his case. It was easier to avoid his eyes, to avoid saying an awkward goodbye, as long as she had to occupy herself with opening the boot, lifting out his case.

            Until his hand closed over hers on the handle, and she let go as if it were on fire.

            “Jemma—” he began.

            “Look, I’m really sorry I made you do this. It was a stupid idea. Please forget it ever happened. Besides your pay, of course.” She watched his feet as they shifted on the pavement.

            “You know what? Keep your money.”

            Jemma looked up, so startled she almost dropped the keys. “What?”

            He was staring at her as he hadn’t done since before their kiss, his eyes bright with angry energy. “Keep it. I didn’t do this so you would pay me. And I don’t care about the paper. I don’t want any of your charity.”

            “But—but _you_ helped _me—_ and the paper—”

            He was shaking his head, staring at a spot over her shoulder, shifting the suitcase nervously in his hands. “No. I didn’t do it for that.”

            Jemma blinked at him, wishing he would look at her again. Her pulse was racing as it did last night, beneath the mistletoe—or beneath what she thought had been mistletoe. She remembered Bobbi asking her if she _really_ knew Fitz at all. She swallowed against the sudden dryness of her throat and said, “Then why did you?”

            He finally met her eyes again. His gaze was fierce and burning and desperate, as if all the words he’d never spoken were dammed there behind his irises instead. “Because I like you, okay? Because I thought, if I couldn’t be your real boyfriend, I could be your fake one for a day. I know. It was stupid.” He hefted the suitcase, stared at her a moment longer, and then made as if to turn toward the station.

            Jemma shot a hand out and grabbed his arm, almost without meaning to. Her body reacted before her mind could, keeping him still. “But—but why did you ignore me every day? For _months_? I mean, I thought you—you hated me . . .”

            “Hated you?” His voice broke on the words. “I couldn’t find the courage to talk to you. I wanted to impress you, but—but I couldn’t find the right thing to say. Nothing was good enough.”

            “Impress me?” It was Jemma’s turn to sound hoarse with surprise. Even Bobbi’s warning could not have prepared her for this. She half-wondered if she was still lying in her bed, dreaming.

            Now that all those pent-up words had broken free, it seemed he couldn’t stop. Jemma stared, her hand still clutching his arm, as he turned back and met her eyes again, his face still desperate. “It was much easier to be Leo than it was to be Fitz. I could pretend—pretend that I was good enough.”

            Jemma squeezed his arm, searching his eyes and finding them far more vulnerable than she’d ever imagined—than she’d ever noticed. She stepped closer, until their faces were a handspan apart. “You’ve always been good enough,” she said.

            She was too close for him to look away, but for once, it seemed like he didn’t want to. He stared at her, his eyes wide and full of emotion, and she stared back, hoping he could read the sincerity in her own. Bobbi had been right—Jemma didn’t know him at all, not really. If she’d paid attention, she would have seen how worried he was, how cautious. How shy and insecure. She would have remember his ragged breath as he kissed her—as she kissed him—and she would have seen the truth.

            “Fitz, I—” she began in a whisper, but this time, it was _his_ hand that came up to the back of her neck. It was his turn to tug her forward, gently but firmly, until his lips met hers. She heard the crash of the suitcase hitting the ground and felt his other arm encircle her, dragging her closer to him until their bodies meshed into one. She leant into the warmth of him, the _smell_ of him, the wonderful pressure of his lips against her own. The way every sensitive part of her body tingled with life as he drew out the kiss. The way his fingers curled in her hair.

            By the time they separated, they were both breathing heavily, their chests rising and falling in unison. Jemma felt a smile spread across her face, irrepressible, and it was mirrored in his own expression. He still held her in his arms.

            She leaned into him. “You know . . .” she said, still a bit breathless. “If you _really_ have nowhere to go for Christmas . . .”

            His smile grew even further, giving him a look of boyish impudence that made her want to kiss him all over again. “Yes?” he asked.

            “You could always come back with me.”

            His arms tightened around her in a flash of affection. She leaned into him, thinking, _this feeling will never get old_. “What’s the going rate?” he asked. “Five hundred pounds?”

            Jemma laughed. “I’m afraid I can’t afford that anymore. But perhaps we could negotiate an alternative payment?” She looked up at him, eyebrows raised, unable to resist a bit of a cheek.

            His smile changed, going from joyous and excited to something more sleepy and contented. Something that made her wish they were curled up in bed again, tangling their feet. “I think we have a deal.” 

* * *

 


End file.
